Janus
by SilverSatori
Summary: "Oh God, no. Please. I didn't... I didn't do that." - 1987. Summer break. Just the time for an easy job at a local business. But it's not that easy. What do you do when you suddenly can't trust yourself anymore? Who will help you?


I'm not really following the trends, but somehow I fell right into Five Nights at Freddy's and are all about that fandom at the moment. I have no idea how that happened and it's really, really inconvenient. (I should be working on Renegade right now. I'm sorry _ )

Ahem. Anyway, in an attempt to postpone a new fanfic until I was done with my current projects, I wrote a one shot to an artwork I did (more like a desperate try to improve my drawing skills). You can find it under my profile "Cedidit" on deviantArt.

Sooooooo... Small info before, this is sort of a part of a larger headcanon idea. Phone Guy (Scott) happens to be Purple Guy's (Vincent) best friend since kindergarten. They are both college students and working at Freddy's as a summer job.

Enjoy!

* * *

He felt like he had slept forever, and was hungover from it. Somehow, he managed not to bump into anything while he stumbled to the kitchen. Maybe he would take a glass of cold water over a coffee. Probably for the best. Coffee never did him much good except for making him irritable and jumpy.

Vincent wiped a wet lock the color of lilac out of his eyes. He had just stood up and was already drenched in sweat.

His vision finally began to clear and leaned on the kitchen counter, stretching with a awn. His back cracked. Ouch. Just then he saw the note lying on the table. He went to pick it up.

 _There's a meeting concerning the work hours at FFP, 4 o'clock. If you're awake, come over._

 _~S_

Vincent rubbed his eyes, trying to read the clock ticking away on the wall. Half past 3. He could still make it. A shower wouldn't be in until the evening, though. Then again, it wouldn't change a whole lot of his soaking state. Sighing, Vincent went to the bathroom and splashed water in his face, so he at least didn't _look_ like he just woke up. He brushed his hair and put it into a ponytail. While searching for his shirt, he found that he could as well wear his uniform. That would at least show his engagement in the job. When he had finally gathered everything, it was quarter to four.

Vincent grabbed one of the cupcakes he had prepared yesterday on his way out.

He rushed out of the door and down the stairs, waving friendly to the landlady just putting down her groceries. She smiled and waved back.

Vincent jumped into his car and cursed when his hands almost sizzled on the steering wheel. When he came home in the morning, he hadn't lost a thought about getting a parking spot in the shadows. So naturally, the car was baking. He could never be lucky. Opening the windows didn't help a lot. He sat the cupcake on a paper plate on the passenger seat. Hopefully, it wouldn't melt on the way. That would be a shame.

After a five-minute drive he was still trying not to touch the steering wheel too often and not hitting anything at the same time. He should put a towel in the car sometime.

Something small ran right in front of his car. Vincent hit the brakes so hard his sunglasses bumped against the sun visor. The car came to a screeching halt, its tires squeaking. It stood, right in front of a little boy, frozen in the middle of the street, staring right at Vincent, his eyes as big as pans. The hood of the car was inches from his chest.

For a few seconds, Vincent was unaware of anything but his pounding heart, the sweat running over him and his suddenly labored breathing. His hands had gripped the steering wheel so tight his knuckles were a stark white, while the insides had to be red with heat. His eyes focused on the child. The boy was about seven or eight years old, with skin tanned from playing outside and a mess of dark curls on top of his head. He wore a yellow shirt with the image of Chica on it and brown slacks. There were tears on his face, none of them fresh. The shock had made him stop crying.

Vincent fell back into his seat, wiping his forehead with a shaking hand. "That was close," he said, a small, relieved laugh escaping him. He killed the engine. The street around him was empty, as were the parking spots in front of the pizzeria. That wasn't unusual at this time of day, or so Scott claimed. It was too hot for most and the kids were safe where their parents had left them.

Weird enough, the cupcake hadn't moved. Somehow, it had stuck to the paper plate, that in turn was stuck to whatever lay under it. Looked like a newspaper that somehow had entangled into the crack of the seat. Any novelist would be shouted down for including something that silly.

Vincent took off the seat belt and threw open the door. The kid hadn't moved.

"Are you okay?", Vincent asked, running to him. The child looked up at him with giant dark eyes and nodded slowly. Then he began shaking and whimpered, staggering. Vincent caught his arm, careful not to hurt him. He knelt down, though the hot asphalt seemed to burn into his knees. He stroked the little boy's hair. "Don't you know you shouldn't run out on the street just like this?", he asked in a gentle voice.

The boy sniffed and wiped at his eyes, nodding. There was a metal bracelet on his wrist, tinkling in the motion. Vincent made a mental note about the engraved letters.

"I'm sorry, Mister," the boy said.

Vincent gave him a bright smile. "It's alright. Nothing happened. Just don't do it again." He stood up, his lower legs aching. "Hey, you know, on that shock it's best to get a snack. Do you like cupcakes?"

The boy looked at him doubtfully. "Mommy told me not to take anything from strangers."

"Your mommy is a very clever woman, dear. But I'm not a stranger. My name is Vincent. I work here." He pointed at the pizzeria. The boy's eyes flickered to the entrance. Three fourth of the windows were frosted glass, everything except for a strip at the top. Nobody liked his kids to be spied upon from the outside.

They were completely alone on the street.

The little boy followed Vincent to the car. "Wait a moment," Vincent said. He gunned the engine and pulled the car closer to the sidewalk, into one of the many parking spots. Would be dreadful to get sued for illegal parking. Then he took up the paper plate with the cupcake and handed it to the boy.

"Here, little guy. A toast that nothing happened."

"That's a cupcake, not a toast," the little boy said, a question mark in his voice. Vincent laughed.

"True. Careful, it's a bit sticky." The boy took the cupcake, his eyes brightening. He looked around for a trashcan and handed his benefactor the paper cup, when he didn't find one. Vincent put it in a little plastic bag he used for a trash can. He'd have to get rid of that later.

The boy dived happily into the sweet present, devouring it in seconds.

"What's that? I never ate anything like that!"

 _I bet you didn't._ Vincent smiled. "Must be the frosting. A friend of mine made those. I can ask him if you want." The boy nodded eagerly, licking the last traces of sugar off his lips.

"Say, why are you out here alone in this heat?", Vincent asked, closing the door and locking his car again. They walked a few steps, closer to the entrance, but not close enough to be seen or heard. The child wiped his mouth and scowled. "The others didn't want to let me play with them."

Vincent frowned. "Well, that's just mean! Don't worry, at Freddy Fazbear's everybody will leave happy. You'll get your own party. Who's your favorite?"

"Chica," the boy said. He blinked and his brows furrowed, as if he was thinking about a complex problem. He coughed. His breathing turned into a wheeze. It took him a lot of effort to draw another breath. Vincent smiled brightly.

"Did you like it, dear? Tastes great, right? I just love peanuts, you know."

The boy fell to his knees, coughing and gasping, new tears streaming over his face. He was fighting for every bit of air he couldn't get. His face was slowly turning red and then blue while he fumbled for something in his pocket, his fingers slipping over the fabric. His position had tightly closed his pocket. He looked up at Vincent with wide eyes, as if he wanted to ask _What are you doing, Mister?_ They were the eyes of a child that knew about the dangers, that had been warned from strangers – but never really believed it. Children think themselves invincible. Their innocence made them blind to dangers. The boy didn't understand why he was doing this. To him, all adults were mature, trustworthy people. In his world, Vincent would kneel down and help him. Because he was an adult and was supposed to protect children.

The boy collapsed, writhing on the sidewalk like a fish on dry land, coughing and struggling, tears and spittle running over his face. His eyes locked into Vincent's. _Why did you do this?_ , they asked. The little boy knew exactly what was happening. He knew his end had come, in the shape of a tall, lean college student with a wide grin and violet eyes and hair.

Vincent heard a car approaching and fell to his knees, shaking the twitching child. "Hey, hey, little one!" His voice grew panicked. "Hello? Help!"

He didn't have to scream for long, before Scott came rushing out of the restaurant, his uniform two-colored from sweat. He saw the child lying there and went white as a sheet, except for the hectic red spots on his cheeks. Vincent looked up, trembling, his eyes wide in horror.

"Call an ambulance! Oh God..." He continued to shake the child, lying still now. Scott was frozen for a second, then he rushed inside. Instead, Mr. Adrian stormed out, his face red with anger.

"What happened?", he shouted. When Vincent didn't answer, he grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to his feet. It was an impressive motion, considering Adrian was one head smaller than Vincent and not exactly a stout senior citizen. He shook the young man, who was so pale his skin seemed translucent.

"I- I don't know," Vincent whimpered eventually. "I came here for the meeting... and, and suddenly there is that kid lying on the sidewalk... Oh God, please tell me he'll be okay, oh God... Did I do something wrong?"

Adrian let go, grabbing his shoulder instead to keep the boy from falling. "Go inside," he said sternly, but not without sympathy. "Go inside and get yourself a drink. It's going to be okay." The man cleared his throat. Lies always had that effect on him. "I know it's a lot to ask, but smile. For the kids."

Vincent nodded, his eyes fixed into nothingness. Slowly, he trudged to the door. Taking a deep breath, he forced something like a smile on his face and went inside. Adrian looked after him. He was trying, if not all too successful. The elderly man knelt down next to the little boy's body. There was no mistaking it. The lips were the color of lilac. There was nothing one could do anymore for the child.

Feeling numb, Adrian looked at the metal bracelet, although he didn't have to. He knew the kid. He was dropped off every Thursday at half past four. His parents never came in themselves, just put him out on the sidewalk. There had been difficulties the last few times, because the kid didn't get along with the others. They never wanted to let him join in, for a reason the adults didn't understand. It was too early for him to be here already. Maybe he had been too early and not felt like getting excluded. Adrian could understand that.

 _Allergic to peanuts. Inhaler in pocket._

In this case, the inhaler would not have changed a thing, though there was only one person who knew that. Adrian heard sirens coming closer, tires squeaking. Then somebody led him away. He didn't even notice. How should he explain this to the parents? He had only seen them once, when they signed the contract for the weekly hours the kid would spend here. He had worked so hard to open this pizzeria. It was his life's work. Was it all for nothing now?

* * *

There were sirens outside, voices. Vincent sat in the safe room, a glass of water in his hands. The only reason it didn't spill over was because it was only filled an inch. He looked into empty air.

 _What are you doing, Mister?_ He saw the boy writhe in agony again, while his throat constricted, cutting off the oxygen, depriving him of his life force. Those innocent, big eyes. _Nobody ever hurt me before. What are you doing, Mister?_

Vincent grinned. He had never felt so alive, despite the paralyzing heat. He downed the rest of the water and set the cup aside. He would put the plate and the paper cup in a trash can on the other end of the city. The police could impossibly search that far away from the scene.

Vincent rubbed his face. His hands were cool from the water. Suddenly, he noticed that he was starving. He hadn't eaten since last evening. There were steps outside and he looked at the ground, his hair covering his eyes.

"Here, Detective." Scott's voice was faint, shaky. He knocked on the door and peeked inside.

"Hey, Vince... The police is here. The want to ask you a couple of things."

Vincent looked up and nodded slowly. "Sure," he murmured.

The Detective was a short, slender man with receding brown hair, cut short at the sides. "Detective Connor," he introduced himself. "Vincent de Briss?"

Vincent nodded. Connor looked at his notepad and then to Scott, hovering nervously around him. "Mr. Goldwyn..."

Scott swallowed. "O-Okay... Vince, you gonna be okay?"

"I guess." Vincent managed a faint smile and Scott left the room, looking back three times before he closed the door.

Connor got a chair and sat down in front of the young man with the wild violet hair. He didn't look much older than a high school senior, not even old enough to drink, really, and was a pile of misery. Nevertheless, until proven, he could be a suspect, although the seasoned detective's instincts told him different. It was always heartbreaking to see young people that devastated.

"Can you tell me what happened? What were you doing before you came here?"

The boy rubbed his face again, as if tired. He was trying to hide the tears, Connor thought sympathetically. Vincent's voice was quiet, the words coming out one by one, each like a rock being dropped. He seemed to fight for every syllable he uttered. "I... I'm a night guard here. I woke up around half past 3 and Scott had left me a note that I should come here for a meeting about... What was it about?" His eyes stared blankly at the detective. Connor waved a hand and noted down what the boy told him.

"It's alright. Doesn't matter."

There was a long pause. "I came here by car. The... the violet one outside. I climbed out and suddenly there was this kid on the sidewalk."

"What was he doing?", Connor inquired.

"He was kneeling, I think." The boy ran a shaky hand through his messy hair. "I... I thought he was playing or something and wondered why he was alone in this heat. And then he collapsed." He broke off, his words edgy with confusion and agony. "Did I do something wrong?", he asked in a whisper. "I wanted to help, but... but..."

Connor put down his notepad. The poor kid. He put a hand on the boy's slender shoulder, trembling under his touch, almost shying away.

"It's alright, son. There's nothing you could have done."

The boy looked at the ground. Actually, he looked right through it. He was reliving the child's fight to the death, Connor thought. Dear God. "What happened to him?"

"It seems like he died of an allergic shock. Did you see him eat or drink something?" Vincent shook his head and rubbed at his eyes again.

"What will happen now?"

"We'll contact the parents." Connor sighed. He hated this. "Here." The detective handed Vincent a card. "If you remember something else, give me a call." The boy nodded slowly, but didn't look up. Something glistened on his cheek.

"Listen, if you need it..." Connor dug another card from his pocket. "We've got a specialist for these cases. She's really nice and discreet, if that's important. There's no shame in taking things like this to heart." The boy accepted the card with a jerky nod, but didn't show any other reaction.

Connor stood up and gave the boy's shoulder a last squeeze. "Go home. Rest. Get your mind off things. We'll handle this."

"Thank you, detective." The words were barely a croak. Connor left, already filing the boy away under "possible suspect, but not likely." Either he was a psychopath with an incredible acting talent, or he was innocent. His career had taught Connor that the talented psychos were really rare.

* * *

The other young man, the short, chubby one, was still waiting outside. He didn't look so good either, if not worse. "What's going on?", he asked. From anyone else it might have been a sharp demand, but this boy didn't seem capable of such a tone. It was just the anxious question of a disturbed and frightened high school student. No, not even high school, Connor corrected. College. He just looked really young.

"I just had to ask a few standard questions. I'll have to ask you too, but first I need to talk to your boss."

"I'm here." Mr. Adrian stomped over to them and gave Scott a sharp look. "Tell Vincent to go home. You too, when we're done here. I'll call in Pete and Andrea to take your shifts."

"But, Sir-", Scott protested. He broke off under the glare of gray eyes. "Yes, Sir." Casting a glance back, he went to the safe room. Vincent didn't seem to have moved at all. He winced when Scott touched his shoulder.

"The boss says you can go home."

Vincent nodded, not looking up. "What about you?"

"I have to stay for questioning. Shouldn't take long."

"You want me to wait? We can drive home together."

"Not a chance. You go home. Get something to eat or whatever, before you faint."

"Fine." Vincent stood up, wiping his face, and gave his friend the ghost of a smile. "See ya, then." He trudged out, trying to look at least moderately friendly. The children had been gathered in the back rooms for a "special party." The animatronics would keep them occupied until this was over. Hopefully the pizzeria didn't get too much of a bad reputation.

* * *

Vincent got into his car and drove off slowly. His hands were shaking, icy. The hot steering wheel was almost a treat. He drove through town center to the park opposite of where his apartment lay. Here was one of the many places everybody illegally dumped their trash, even after the big dumpsters were full. The park was deserted at this time of day. It was mostly left to the joggers and dog owners, of which no one was crazy enough to go out in this heat. Vincent grabbed the plastic bag with the paper cup and plate and threw it into the dumpster. This was miles away from Freddy's. Nobody would search for it.

After that, he wandered through the few trees for a while, to the small lake with a stretch of something resembling a lawn next to it.

 _Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind. The thief doth fear each bush an officer._

Vincent began to laugh. A genuine cramp of laughter surged through him. He flung his arms out and fell to the grass, looking into the clear blue sky until his eyes hurt. He lay there for several minutes, shaking with laughter, until his belly ached. The kid's confusion. The light in his eyes dying away, even the color of his lips after he perished. Purple. Vincent's color.

It was _hilarious_.

He could go over this again and again.

Eventually, his laughter died away to a giggle that would have made a passer-by's blood freeze. He straightened up with a happy sigh, wiping tears of laughter out of his face. He had managed this quite well, he thought. Evidence gone, the stupid detective thought him to be a vulnerable kid. His story was simple, and in all the confusion he could not be expected to remember puny trivialities. Of course, they would come back later, for more details, but not for an interrogation. He had been the only one at the scene, that was all.

There were the tire marks. He would have to make up something for that, if they actually related that to him at all.

Vincent stretched, feeling a slight pain in his stomach from already sore muscles. The grin didn't want to get off his face. He had to be careful around others. He almost hadn't managed concealing his smile from Scott after that idiot detective had left.

Vincent got up, frowning at the grass stains on his trousers and shirt. He would have to get those out soon. Damn it. Though he supposed he would not have to make it to his shift this night anyway. Adrian was a goodhearted man. A fool, but a righteous and caring one. Which made him a special kind of fool, just like Scott.

Vincent got back to his car and drove home. He didn't see anyone following him, but that would have been premature anyway. He wasn't a suspect. There was no one out in the apartment complex either. The city was just simmering in the heat. For once, the heat worked in his favor.

Inside the flat, Vincent dropped his clothes on a pile in his bedroom and went to the shower. Even the water was fairly warm, coming from pipes ten feet under the street. It poured over him, washing away sweat, grass and dirt, soaking his hair.

 _You killed the little boy._ Vincent blinked, stopping in mid-motion. His body started to shake, and not from the nonexistent cold.

"I didn't," he murmured. "I'd never hurt anyone."

He remembered the pleading eyes. _What are you doing, Mister?_ A boy who had never done any harm. Who had never been hurt. A boy that grew up a bit estranged from his parents, but still protected. His whole life stretched out in front of him. He could be anything. A president, a racer, a writer. Now he was dead. Dead because he was allergic to peanuts. Dead because Scott had complained about the kids being so rude to that little boy, just because he was sick and couldn't always play, couldn't eat everything. Because he was allergic to peanuts, the small treats Chica gave out. _Why did you do this, Mister?_

Vincent screamed, falling to his knees. The water was pounding on his head, indifferent to suffering, to joy, to the world. The violet strands covered his face, getting soaked with tears and then washed clean again. He breathed in water, coughed, and furiously rubbed at his eyes. "No. No. No," he whimpered. "Oh God, no. Please. I didn't... I didn't do that."

The water cooled the tears and swept them away. Vincent sobbed, kneeling on the shower floor, shaking with cold and desperation and rage. He could see the boy's eyes. Curious, confused. He had trusted Vincent, because Vincent was an adult and worked at his favorite pizza place. He had a badge. People with badges were the good guys. They would never harm an innocent kid.

The eyes stared at him.

 _It was fun_ , a voice inside of him whispered. _We can kill them all. Just remember how much fun it was. How he struggled and writhed. A pathetic little fish. And we enjoyed it. We laughed. Those insects will all die by our hands._

"Stop! Just stop!" Vincent jerked up, trying to chase the voices away. He slipped, landing with his back against the warm tiles of the wall. The water rained down and he watched it run into the drain. He sat there for a long time, soaked, shaking, crying, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees. "I didn't. I couldn't have done that."

 _We laughed. We felt good. Alive. Finally somebody recognizes us. We are superior._

"NO!" He jumped to his feet, his back sliding along the wall.

Sudden pain flared through his shoulder. Vincent cried out in surprise. It was a primal sound, the scream of a tortured animal. He had to put a hand on the wall to steady himself, breathing heavily. He felt hot blood running over his back, down his legs, dripping on the floor, dissolving in the water. The stream turned pinkish. Vincent stared at it, the pain turning to a heavy pounding, a red wave running through him with every heartbeat. How bad was it?

Maybe, maybe he should just sit down again. Wait until it either stopped bleeding or he died.

With mechanical movements, he washed, enjoying the pain in his shoulder. He deserved it. He had to go to the police. Before anyone else got hurt.

Eventually, he got out of the shower, drying his hair with a towel, rubbing off his body. He left red smudges on the towel.

He caught a glimpse of his back in the mirror. The nail was intended to hang up sponges, something neither Scott nor Vincent had ever done, but the landlady thought necessary. It had ripped a large gash into his skin, from the edge of his right shoulder blade down to his spine. Blood was still trickling out, but not enough to be deadly.

Vincent tried to wipe away the blood before he left even more traces, but he couldn't reach the spot without twisting his shoulders, making it bleed even more. Eventually, he gave up. He wasn't thinking anything he could remember afterwards. He could only see those innocent, confused eyes.

 _What are you doing, Mister?_

He met his own eyes in the mirror. The white had turned to red and the circles under them had the color of his irises. The color of the dead boy's lips. What had been his name? Scott must have mentioned it some time, but Vincent could not remember for his life what it might have been. A short name. Something with an A.

Andy? Aaron? Adam?

He heard the front door open.

"Vince? You here?", Scott called.

"Yeah." The word was stifled, choked. Vincent cleared his throat and tried again. "I'm here."

"I brought us some pancakes. Thought you weren't in the mood for pizza."

"Thanks."

There was a pause. "I'll be in the kitchen."

"Uh-huh." His answer was too quiet to be heard through the door. Vincent could hear Scott taking off his shoes and the rustling of a bag. He put on boxer shorts and trousers, bound his hair back again, though it was still wet. He was already sweating again, though the room might have been the coldest in the whole flat. The wettest, too.

He washed the paper towels down the toilet and went outside. He didn't even notice the red streaks he had left over his body. He rubbed his face, leaving a smear on his cheek. Again, he didn't notice. Even if he had, he wouldn't have cared. Scott was standing in the hallway and stared at him, his eyes widening.

"V-Vincent?" Had he been standing away three feet more, his voice would have been unintelligible.

Vincent slowly raised his head and looked his friend in the eyes, making him go paler by another shade or two. Something inside of him wanted to laugh Scott in the face. It wanted him to explain every last detail of the scene he had witnessed, to make this small mind _see_. The trusty little brat, eating the cupcake. He had been so happy about a treat after the shock of almost being run over. It had been a happy death, right? Finally somebody _really_ paid attention to him. Later, the realization he had made a mistake. Not even blaming the man smiling down on him. His fruitless struggle. And the soundless question, not angry, just confused. _What are you doing, Mister?_

And suddenly it was too much. It all spilled over, just like the tears running over his face once again. Vincent fell to his knees, his legs refusing to carry his weight. Scott caught him and Vincent dug his fingers into the wide shirt. They were coated with blood. When had that happened? It left bright stains on Scott's blue shirt with the Freddy logo. The damn bear was smiling down on him like a mocking god.

"Vince, what the-?"

"I killed him!", Vincent whimpered. "It's all my fault. I gave him that peanut cupcake. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I-" His words slurred into an senseless mess. He pressed his face into his friend's chest, feeling his tears soak the fabric. Scott was shaking like a tiny tree in a hurricane, but he put a hand on Vincent's hair and stroked it, trying to calm him. The other hand settled on his back, in a tight hug. Scott was an awkward person, finding it difficult to understand other people, but he always knew when somebody needed comfort.

He gasped, finally seeing the source of the red smears. "Vince, you're bleeding! What happened?"

Vincent didn't even listen. "It's all my fault," he repeated, over and over. "My fault."

Scott gulped, but didn't let go. "If it was an accident, why didn't you say so?"

"It wasn't!," Vincent snapped, a hysteric laugh wanting to break out of him. Not just hysteric. Delighted. A part of him was still happy and that scared him, more than anything. "You were always talking about the kid when you came home on Thursdays, and I knew he was allergic, and..." He sobbed again, but he couldn't stop the flood of words. He had to tell somebody. "I smiled at him when he died. I put the evidence away, near the park. I killed him, and... and I drove away and I laughed about it. How he looked at me... I can see it. I see his eyes." He laughed, a raspy, desperate sound, that turned into a whimper. "I can hear them. They're telling me to kill those kids. All of them." He tugged at the shirt, powerless, lonely, afraid, and looked up at his friend, seeing no more than a vague shape behind a wet curtain.

"Help me," Vincent begged. "Please. Make them stop. I don't..." He drew a shaky breath. "I don't want to be like this. I don't want to be a monster."

Scott looked down on his friend, pale, weeping, bloody. He hugged Vincent, as hard as he could.

"We'll find a solution," he promised, trying not to let his terror show. "I'm with you, man. I won't let you down."

Vincent didn't answer. Scott let him cry until he had no more strength left. The blood dried to dark red crusts, but the wound didn't stop oozing. Eventually, he helped Vincent stand up and brought the shaking young man to the couch. Scott was by far not strong enough to carry his friend, but somehow Vincent could walk, just a bit. He collapsed on the worn-down sofa. The gash in his shoulder shone in the afternoon light, drops of blood oozing out and running into the soft ravine of the spine, settling there in a dark pool. Scott rushed to get the first-aid-kit the landlady had thoughtfully stored in every apartment. Was it weird that he was worried about leaving stains on the Mrs. Barnes' sofa? She would probably kill them for that.

"This might hurt." The answer was an inarticulate sound. Scott disinfected the cut. It was deep, so deep that he thought to see bone glisten. He fought down the sickness that gripped his stomach. Vincent didn't even cringe under the hydrogen peroxide. That had to burn like gasoline lit on fire, but he almost smiled. Vincent had to think he deserved this pain. Scott shuddered.

He sew the cut, and put the biggest plaster over it that he found. Vincent didn't stir. He was sleeping, exhausted from the events and his breakdown. Scott packed everything together and carefully cleaned the blood off Vincent's skin where he could reach without waking him. Then he put the dirty clothes and towels into the washing machine. The cut was no direct evidence, but better to be careful. Had he forgotten anything?

They needed a plan. More than that, Vince needed help. He had been alone for too long, with all those night shifts. He had never been a great people person, despite his natural charm, unlike Scott. But now he was more estranged from human contact than ever. No wonder he was freaking out. No night guard had done that job for more than two weeks straight so far. All the happiness turned weird in the darkness. It wore you down.

Scott looked after his friend again. Vincent was sleeping, a bit of color returning to his face. Scott smiled and tenderly touched the wild purple strands, barely making them rustle. Then he went to take a shower, not forgetting to clean the bloody nail. He would figure something out. _They_ would figure something out. That was what friends were for, right?

* * *

What do you think? At first, I hated Purple Guy, though I found him interesting (because in most cases, he's a creepy, evil bastard). But I can't really hate my version of him. Sure, it's horrible, but he's sort of a victim himself.

Also, this is not really supposed to be a shipping. I haven't decided if I ship them yet. Scott is gay and struggling with it and also a bit in love with his best friend, but afraid to come out since it might ruin their friendship. Maybe I'll write that story soem day. But this is all I'll do for that fandom for now. Sorry.

Anyway, I hope you liked it, give a little feedback, maybe?


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